


Giving Lives a Second Chance

by SeraphinaGreene



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Ghost!Sherlock, M/M, Psychic!Mrs.Hudson, ghost!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 14:15:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeraphinaGreene/pseuds/SeraphinaGreene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps things hadn't ended they way they'd planned. Perhaps the intended meeting fate had planned wasn't as set in stone as many had thought. Perhaps John hadn't been hit in the same place by that bullet in Afghanistan. Perhaps he hadn't survived. Perhaps he hadn't been there for Sherlock when he ran into trouble. Perhaps while John returned in a coffin to his sister, Sherlock went to solve "A Study in Pink" on his own. Perhaps he took the poison, stalling just a bit too short. </p>
<p>Perhaps they have a different meeting. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson, a woman Sherlock knows, is more than he ever could have deduced. Perhaps he shares a flat (for ghosts) with a man he cannot hear, see, or feel. Perhaps this "John Watson" a man he can only see in his reflections, is more than ordinary. Perhaps he's falling in love.</p>
<p>Perhaps this "Sherlock Holmes" is more than a bumbling moron who insists on moving his cane about the flat and keeps body parts in his fridge. Perhaps this man, who he cannot hear, see, or feel, is more than even brilliant. Perhaps he feels the same.</p>
<p>Perhaps, in the end, it is all simply fate Giving Lives a Second Chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Giving Lives a Second Chance

Chapter 1

John Watson frowned up at Mrs. Hudson, the new landlady he’d found. “I don’t think I understand. I accepted the advertisement for the flat because it was the only one I could afford. But now you tell me that my money is invalid?” The man was fresh from the military, he’d just returned from his tour in Afghanistan. He couldn’t remember leaving, per se, but he knew that he’d just been there. He must have been discharged, he assumed, for he had a limp in his right leg and a pain in the left side of his chest. So he walked with a cane in his right hand and his left arm squished against his side. It was uncomfortable, but manageable.

“Invalid?” She answered him with a chuckle. “No, of course not, dear. I’m sure your money works anywhere else you please.” She had a smile on her face, as if she were sharing a secret with someone. Somehow, however, John had no hope of deciphering it. “But pounds aren’t proper currency here. I thought you’d know that by now. The only payment we accept here is time.”

“Time?” John echoed curiously, “What sort of time, exactly?”

“Well, with a price as low as this, a dream a week should be sufficient.” She replied easily.

“John looked positively frazzled. “Which means…?”

Mrs. Hudson was beginning to believe that her newest resident didn’t understand the reality of his situation. “Normally, each person has control of their dreams subconsciously. When the time is taken as payment, however, the flat itself is in charge.”

“Well, I-I suppose I don’t see the harm in it then.” John stuttered softly. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure what that meant, but assumed it wouldn’t be of any harm to discover the truth at a later date.

“It’s good to hear that dear. Lastly, would you object to having a flatmate? I doubt you’d see him often. Or at all, frankly. He keeps odd hours, and of course, he’s like you. It’s easier to keep track of the spectral plane that way.”

“No, of course not, that’s fine.” A beat. “W-wait a minute! ‘Like me’? What’re you on about? And what’s this rubbish about the spectral plane?”  
“I wouldn’t refer to your new home that way if I were you, John.” She said with a small smile.

“New home? I thought I was buying a flat.” He looked utterly confused.

Smiling, she only shook her head. “The place is yours, John. Be sure to claim your room soon, your flatmate will be arriving shortly.”

Thanking her, he shook her hand, and, taking his luggage, headed for the stairs. He’d gone up two steps when she called out to him, “You don’t have to use them, you know. It’s just that a two-story flat would look weird without it. Well that, and it would be difficult for me to visit.  
”  
He frowned at that. “Are you implying that there’s a lift, ma’am?”

“Dear, just call me Mrs. Hudson, everyone does.” She chuckled then. “A lift? I wish, with these old bones.” Then she sobered. “You really don’t know, do you?” She stared at him now, her mouth slightly agape.

“Know what?” He asked her uncomfortably, shifting in place.

“That you’re dead, of course.” She replied softly. If you’re here, that’s the only reason for it, dear. It’s because you’re dead.”


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes, in comparison with John Watson, was not only aware of his death, but was very comfortable with it despite the fact that he hadn’t been dead for long.

“So what is the rent for this flat then, Mrs. Hudson?” He said with a knowing smile. “The advertisement did say it was cheap. I’m assuming no more than a dream every few days?”

“Once a week, actually.” She said, returning his smile for a minute before pulling him into her arms. “Oh drop the act, you silly man. I’ve missed you so, Sherlock Holmes.” Then she pulled him away to look him in the eyes. “When was your deathday, Sherlock?”

“May 8th of this year.” He replied slowly.

“Just over five months.” She replied slowly. Then it came to her. “That rotten cabbie serial killer. I knew I should have taken you in earlier. Why, after helping me with my husband, I would have given you a discount, you could be sure of that.”

He brushed it off. “What’s done is done, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Even so, dear, that’s not much time to adjust. Normally, such a thing takes years, sometimes even decades.”

He shrugged. “Normalcy is dull. I’m dead. There’s not much else to come to grips with.”

Mrs. Hudson gave him a look. “There’s a life beyond this, Sherlock. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have a reason to stay.”

He smiled in response, but ignored her comment. “I was a consulting detective in my old life, and a deathday consultant in this. There’s nothing I can’t handle, Mrs. Hudson.”

“This world really is one big experiment to you, isn’t it, Sherlock.” She laughed when he only gave her a curt nod. “Well, the rooms are upstairs. I don’t suppose you mind having a flatmate?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Work keeps me busy. I don’t keep regular hours, I play the violin at all hours of the day and I hardly ever sleep.”

“He won’t mind, dear. I doubt you’ll see each other much, if at all. Your schedules would rarely cross.”

“Right. Well then, Mrs. Hudson. I’m sure you have business in the human world to attend to. Being psychic does have its perks, but I’m assuming there’s more to life than meets the eye.” Unlike John, he simply picked up his suitcase. Before he left, he said, “But I’m sure if you’d invited me to stay I’d have eventually figured it out.” When she only smiled and shook her head, he floated up through the ceiling to the second floor of the flat, leaving her to return to her work.

Looking around, the former consulting detective could see that the door to the second bedroom was open, clothes still stacked in boxes. Striding over to the first bedroom, he put his clothes away. Once that was done, he pulled out the experiments box. The more sensitive ones were put away, the others simply left about the kitchen.

His box of oddities and acquisitions were next. Finally, the skull was added to the mantelpiece. As he was putting it on the end, Sherlock saw a glimpse of something in the ornate mirror in front of him. Looking up, he was greeted by a surprisingly familiar face. Familiar, but not. For some reason, he recognized the man. He’d never met him. Didn’t even know his name. And yet he somehow knew him, as if his body recognized him, but not his mind.

Still holding the skull of his former rival, he turned, intending to greet his new flatmate, but found himself greeting an empty room. Intrigued by his anomaly, he turned back around to put the skull on the ledge. Looking into the mirror once more, he saw his flatmate again, leaning on his cane.

When he glanced behind him again, he saw only an empty room. When he turned back to the mirror once more, the person was gone. It was almost as if he were never there in the first place.

~~~

That night, Sherlock dreamed. Of a man with a psychosomatic limp. Of adventures he should have had with him, had they met in another reality, if neither had died. Of running, hand in hand, through the city of London to solve a case. Of a beloved man he didn’t even know the name of. He was quite puzzled when he awoke.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

If Sherlock was intrigued, John was spooked. The image he’d seen in the mirror was startling to say the least. From where he’d been standing (leaning, really), it was almost as if the man had been standing in front of the fireplace, admiring the mirror, but all he could see of him was the man’s head, neck and chest, reflected in the mirror. And the back of his head when he turned around. The man himself was invisible. All he could see was his reflection.

So he went to his room, trying to understand what the heck he was even doing here. He didn’t feel dead. He certainly couldn’t remember dying. Yet here he was.  
Nothing very “odd” happened for a while after that—excluding the oddest thing that had happened to him yet. He was dead.

He found life-after-death rather dull at first, considering he had virtually nothing to occupy his time with.

A doctor in life, he really didn’t have experience doing anything else, but kept his eyes out for anything he might find interesting, considering doctors weren’t needed after death.

Back in the flat, he was having problems he oddly found more difficult than he would have dealt with if he’d joined a hospital after returning from the military. If he’d been alive, anyway.

First of all, his cane kept seemingly disappearing on him. Often, he’d be sleeping, and instead of finding it leaning against the nearest piece of furniture, he’d find it sometimes halfway across the flat. Once, he found it in the linen closet of all places. He was getting really irritated by the whole thing, but all in all, it wasn’t enough to make him complain.

Second of all, he was getting rather aggravated by his new flatmate’s odd experiments. Why, just the other day he went to get some cheese and crackers to have with his afternoon tea, and, upon opening the fridge, discovered a severed head. So yes, he was fed up. So when the letter inviting both himself and his flatmate to tea with Mrs. Hudson, John was eager to accept. Why would he skip a chance to meet the rather eccentric flatmate of his finally?

He chuckled as he recalled that Mrs. Hudson had said that they’d hardly ever see each other. Evidently she hadn’t known how true that would be.

~~~

That night, John dreamed. Of a strange man who keeps body parts in his fridge. Of an obsidian-haired man who should have kept him company in another life, one where neither had died. Of a man who insisted that he didn’t have a limp. A man who helped him recover from it. A man who helped him learn to love life again, despite his terrors of war. When John woke up, he had tears his eyes, wishing that reality were true.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Sherlock was finding his flatmate (who surprisingly never seemed to be around) very interesting, despite not seeing him since that incident with the mirror.

For one thing, the man walked with a cane. He was a ghost! Ghosts didn’t generally walk, and they most certainly didn’t need canes. So he hid it, seeing that it didn’t seem to be used. And since it didn’t, he thought he might even be doing the man a favor by doing so. What was shocking, however, was the fact that no matter what, it still found its way back again, often propped up against the man’s chair or beside his bed, even when the man was nowhere in sight (which was all the time).

Another thing was the fact that his flatmate had made no comment about his experiments, no note or otherwise. It wasn’t as if the man hadn’t been in the kitchen, it was particularly evident that he was a chronic tea drinker, even after death. The point was, he was baffled by him. Everyone always had something to say about his experiments. To emphasize the ‘get his flatmate to comment on his experiments’ experiment; he even bothered to acquire a fake severed head and put it in the fridge. As far as he could tell, no reaction, although there’d been a significantly less amount of cheese being eaten, Sherlock observed from the grocery list and from what the man often left on his plate, even if it was for a reason he wasn’t quite sure of. So when Sherlock found the note from Mrs. Hudson asking them both to tea, he promptly agreed. He noticed, with great irritation, that she, the woman who often scolded him repeatedly for treating her as his housekeeper, hadn’t bothered to write either of their names on the note. He wasn’t stupid. He knew his own name, but he’d supposedly been living in this flat with another ghost for an entire month and he’d had yet to even learn the man’s name.

He took his frustration out by hiding the man’s cane again. This time in the linen closet.


	5. Chapter 5

Mrs. Hudson was getting very concerned about the newest residents of flat 221B.

They never seemed to talk to each other, for one thing. In fact, as she watched the two of them hurry about their lives, she never once saw them speak to each other, never once saw them make eye contact. Sometimes, they walked straight through each other without even noticing, as if they couldn’t even see each other.  
When this had gone on for several weeks, Mrs. Hudson had decided it was time for an intervention.

And of course, what’s a proper intervention without tea? So she took it upon herself to invite them both for afternoon tea the following week, the official one month anniversary of the two of them renting out the flat together.

When the day came, Sherlock arrived first, his favorite sweater crisp, his pants spotless.

“Ah, Sherlock, come in. John should be on his way shortly. You are early, after all.” She smiled, “Come have a seat. Would you like some tea?”

“That sounds lovely, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock told her politely as he took the chair farthest from the door.

She went to the kitchen to steep him some, and as she poured the former consulting detective’s tea, there was a knock at the door.

Humming, Mrs. Hudson carried the three piping hot cups of tea to the table. Then, going to the door, she opened it to greet John, ushering him into the room as she took his coat.

She noticed that Sherlock blinked repeatedly as she watched John walk over to the table and sit down, but thought nothing of it. John was a handsome man, after all, and she wasn’t one to judge. Mrs. Turner had married ones next door.

Sitting down herself, she sipped her own tea, smiling at them both curiously. Sherlock blinked once more as he stared silently towards where John sat. John, on the other hand, glanced at Sherlock’s untouched cup of tea and then at Sherlock—correction, Sherlock’s lap, as if he were gazing at an empty chair. Casually, John commented, “I see he failed to show up again. Can’t say I’m surprised.” He glanced up at Mrs. Hudson, who looked startled.

For one thing, Sherlock said nothing in rebuttal, didn’t bother even to blink, much to her shock. It was almost as if he hadn’t heard, as if he had no idea John was even there, considering he couldn’t seem to focus on the man, much less on the fact that he’d spoken.

Sighing, she looked between the two before she came to a realization. “I see. Well, I think I finally understand what’s going on.” She smiled softly, “But, as you yourself would say, a theory is only as justified as its supporting data.”

“I would never…” John spluttered, and she waved it away as she moved everything off the silver tea tray.

“No dear, I was speaking to Sherlock.” She smiled. “Alright then, how many people are in this room, dearies?”

“Two.” They responded simultaneously, and then Sherlock continued to speak. “Of whom I can see. Evidence does support a third, although their presence isn’t visually evident to me.”

Then she lifted the silver tea tray, once the cups had been removed. “How many of us are there now?”

“Three.” The two replied again, much to her bemusement, watching as they glanced at the reflections and then at the places where they assumed the other sat.  
“How the bloody hell is that possible?” John spluttered, “I feel like I’ve gone barking mad.”

“There are rare cases of this same situation occurring before.” Mrs. Hudson began, “In such cases, it is often believed that ghosts who are unable to see, touch, or hear each other were supposed to meet in their previous lives but never did due to death.”

Sherlock gave her a rather pensive frown as he tented his fingers together under his chin. “Our lives are governed by science, Mrs. Hudson. How many times must I tell you that? There is no support for predestined meetings between people in such a field.”

“As much as our lives are guided by science, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson retorted, much to John’s astonishment, “There is little alive in the spectral plane. Existence here follows an entirely different set of rules, as you of all people should know.”

“Excuse me.” John asked as the room appeared to go silent, “but why has no one bothered to mention how to rid ourselves of this? I’m living in a flat with a dead man I can’t bloody see!”

She patted him on the arm. “At least you’re dead too, dear.” She gave him a weak smile. “As for the solution, none have ever been reported.”

“What!” The two men uttered, staring into the tea tray, shocked.

“There has to be one.” John said shakily.

Only seconds later, Sherlock declared, “I will discover it.”

They tried for hours, but nothing became of it.

Eventually, they gave up and made their way back upstairs.

When they went up to bed, the former consulting detective picked up his violin and began to compose.

Seconds before drifting off to sleep, John remembered hearing the pensive sounds of music composition from a well-tuned violin.

~~~

John’s dreams were very vivid, and all the while filled with the sweet music of a treasured violin. The sweet noise filled his soul and awakened his senses, and he continued to dream of brief moments in the parlor filled with listening to Sherlock play. Moments he should have shared with the man. Moments lost in time. When he awoke, he let out a sigh. If only that world was real.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Due to their inability to hear or see each other, Sherlock had the idea that it was best to write notes to each other.

At first, they were short and simple, such as, “We’re running low on milk, pick some up when you go to the store.—SH.” Or, “There’s a high magnetic field in the kitchen today. Keep electronic devices at bay.—SH.”

Before long, John was answering, and the two would have random conversations, such as why a man would keep fingers in his refrigerator.

Eventually, however, John found himself posed with a question Sherlock had asked that shocked him. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

His jotted response read, “…Sorry?”

“Which was it—Afghanistan or Iraq?” Was Sherlock’s repeated quiery.

“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know…?” John’s hand shook as he wrote his reply.

Sherlock’s reply came almost instantly, moving so quickly the former M.D. was shocked at how fast the words appeared on the page. “I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room, said trained at Bart’s, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp’s really bad when you walk but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq.”

“That…was amazing.” Came John’s scribbled reply, and Sherlock’s surprised response came soon after.

“Two, actually.” A beat. “Do you think so?”

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.” John was shocked, mostly because for a man who seemed to have extreme confidence in himself, the confidence from another person seemed to baffle him.

“That’s not what people normally say.” Sherlock seemed to explain to him.

“What do people normally say?” John wrote out, curious.

“‘Piss off’.” Came Sherlock’s witty reply. John hadn’t laughed so hard since the day he’d been shot.

~~~

John didn’t dream this time. He had nightmares. Nightmares that had been plaguing him for months. This was not what he’d wanted. He hated them. They were of the war. The dreaded war. The war that got him sent home. Not to the hospital, but to the morgue. And that’s not where he’d hoped he’d end up afterwards. Perhaps he’d walk through a park and meet an old friend of his from St. Bart’s, share some coffee, and discuss the unlikelihood of ever finding a proper flatmate. But certainly not this. A home for ghosts. With another like him. This was not what he wanted. Certainly not while he was still being haunted by his life.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The next morning, Sherlock awoke to screaming. It took him two moments to realize whose they were. John’s.

Slipping on his favorite blue robe, he quickly crossed over to the second bedroom.

“Watson!” He hissed, standing in the doorway, forgetting he couldn’t hear him. “Watson!” A beat. “John!”

A startled silence. “Sherlock?”

John looked over to where the voice had come from, looked over to where he stood, even though he couldn’t see him. “Sherlock, is that you?”

The obsidian-haired man hesitated for on a moment. “Yes, John. I’m standing in the doorway.”

“So I guess we can hear each other, then.” He said calmly, his voice still ragged from the nightmare.

“The appearance is evident, yes.” Sherlock replied slowly, agreeing with him. After a moment of resigned silence, he said quietly, “Well, you’ve ceased your thrashing. I suppose I’ll make my leave now.” He turned to return to his bedroom.

“Wait. Please.” John requested urgently.

Sherlock paused, made a small sound of query.

“Please sit with me a moment.” He said quietly.

Sherlock looked about the room for a moment. The only chair that had been in the room to begin with had been moved out into the living room. So he crossed the space between them and joined John on the bed.

The former M.D. felt the bed dip slightly and let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Several minutes of silence went by before Sherlock spoke. “You should fire that therapist you’ve been seeing.”

John had been seeing Ella, his therapist for months now. He’d found her in hopes that she could help him figure out how he’d died. He hadn’t even bothered to tell Mrs. Hudson. He simply marked the days on the calendar with a single dash. “Oh come now, Sherlock. How did you deduce that? From the soles of my feet?”  
The obsidian-haired man scoffed. “The soles of your feet. Honestly. You’re a ghost with a psychosomatic limp, John. Of course you have a therapist.”

A beat. “Thank you.” John said softly.

“Your appreciation of my advice on your personal life is duly noted.” Was Sherlock’s reply, entirely too calm to be mocking.  
John snorted. “Not for telling me I need to fire my therapist, even though I do.” He sighed. “For staying with me. Thank you.”

Sherlock nodded and smiled softly, despite the fact that he knew John couldn’t see it. “It was the only logical choice. I was concerned for your health.”  
“That’s flattering.” John said with a smile. That’s when he realized something. “I woke you up, didn’t I?”

“Your deduction is well-founded.” Sherlock conceded with a sigh. But he was smiling. And for an instant, as John closed his eyes before drifting off to sleep, he swore he could see it, could see that smile. That he could see him.

~~~

John knew as soon as he realized he was dreaming that this was what Mrs. Hudson meant. A dream a week. It seemed easy enough. But then, eventually, you started having dreams you didn’t want to have. Because they were too vivid, too real. They didn’t have to be terrifying to be scary. They could be about things you wanted but couldn’t have. Like Sherlock. About seeing him. Touching him. Holding him.   
And as platonic as it seemed, he knew it had a deeper meaning. Because he could feel the underlying desire to kiss, to love, to claim.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

A few nights later, John and Sherlock sat beside the fire in their chairs, casually conversing when the former consulting detective asked rather bluntly, “John, you seem rather uncomfortable with the fact that you’re dead. Why is that?”

The former M.D. shifted rather uncomfortably in his chair at the mere mention of that fact, trying not to spill his tea in the process. He set it down on the table, and then began, “Mostly because I don’t remember dying. Although it’s likely I was shot.”

“In the chest.” Sherlock said with a sigh. Seeing John’s surprise for the flash of a second, he continued, “Whenever you’re worried, I notice when I look into the mirror that you favor your right sight and often clutch your arm to your chest. While your limp in your leg is psychosomatic, the pain in your chest and arm is real. When you’re under stress, the limp goes away. The pain, however, does not.” John frowned, silent, so Sherlock continued. “The nightmares you’ve been having. Judging by your reaction to them, I’d conclude that they’re about the war.”

John nodded silently, even though his companion couldn’t see it. “Of being shot in the chest.”

“That’s why you’ve been having them, John.” Sherlock reasoned. “Repressed memories.”

John looked apprehensive then. “Sherlock, how did you die? If you don’t mind me asking, of course, I don’t mean to intrude—”

Sherlock held up his hands, and for that brief moment, John could see him again, effectively cutting him off mid-sentence. “I’ll stop you right there, John. You’re very prone to rambling, and if I let you continue on as you are, I’ll never get my point across.” He sighed in order to collect his thoughts. “It was an incident. The case was simple enough. I found the cabbie who was committing the serial murders shortly. But I was careless. I didn’t take into account how long it would take for the police to catch up. They are in over their heads already. I’d never wished for a companion until then. But by that point, when they arrived, it was already too late. I imagine they arrested the murderer, but I can’t be sure.”

“ ‘Case’? Were you some kind of P.I.?”

“Consulting detective. The only one in the world. Created the profession myself.”

Sherlock swore he saw John nod this time. “So you died because you didn’t have a ‘companion’.”

It was Sherlock who nodded this time, and when John blinked, it seemed as if his image faded slower. So the next time it happened, he blinked twice. Then next time after, three. Four. The patter continued to escalate until he was blinking quite rapidly.

“John,” Sherlock urged him, “If I could grab you and shake you right now, I would. Please cease your blinking. Even if you stop, I’m not going to vanish on you.”  
John closed his eyes and then opened them. Sherlock was still there, looking rather concerned over him. The former military doctor smiled.

~~~

That night, Sherlock dreamed of John. He knew, even as he dreamed, what it meant, smelling what could only be described as John, craving his touch, curling into his bed to simply feel close. He was both physically and mentally attached. He was attached seamlessly, his emotions screaming for him. That’s what he referred to it as.

Anyone else would simply call it falling in love.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

It wasn’t until John awoke the next morning that he’d asked Sherlock to stay with him that night to see if he could assist with his persisting nightmares. It had worked, luckily. He’d had the best night sleep he’d had since he’d…well, died.

So that was how he found himself with his body enveloped by Sherlock’s own, wishing silently that he could feel the warmth of his body heat, the softness of his skin, the rock-hard sensation of his morning—wait, what?

It wasn’t until that very moment that John could touch him. It had only lasted for a minute, but it was real. Then John felt the bed dip as Sherlock shifted, their knees colliding. The shooting pains were shockingly welcomed, proof that the sensations were real.

John ran his hand across Sherlock’s bare chest then. He knew, as his fingers met warm skin, tweaked nipples, and removed clothing, that it was true. Whether he liked it or not, he had fallen for Sherlock. But it only made sense. In many ways, it seemed almost as if they’d always been dancing around the inevitable.

Sherlock awoke with a gasping sob. “John?” It came out as a moan, the desire evident in his eyes.

“Sherlock.” Came John’s gasping reply as he ground their hips together, members sliding against each other as he hissed out, “Can you feel that? Please tell me you can. I don’t want to wake up and discover that this has all been a marvelous—!”

The former consulting detective’s hands rose to grasp the back of John’s head, and then dragged them towards him to crash his lover’s lips with his own. Against them, he declared, “This is not a dream, John.” He pulled John’s legs up around his waist. “If you need persuasion, however, I’d be happy to oblige.”

“Please,” John groaned out as he ground into him shamelessly. And Sherlock knew exactly what he meant.

Slicking his fingers, Sherlock slowly prepped him, kissing across his torso.

When he had three fingers inside and John was writhing, calling out for him, he slid inside, rubbing against the spot that caused John to curl his toes and cry out loudly.

It wasn’t long until they were both crying out as they came, one after the other, and held each other as they drifted off to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The next morning was full of simplicities, morning tea, violin music, and conversation, until Mrs. Hudson invited them down for lunch.

Sitting side by side, their legs touching for the simple purpose of being able to feel it, they ate together contentedly.

It was out of complete coincidence that John looked into the mirror on the wall and let out a gasp. “Sherlock.” He pointed to their reflections. Beside Mrs. Hudson’s own, theirs appeared to be fading.

She smiled, understanding. “Your time has ended on this plain of existence. You have found each other, and in turn found yourselves. Now it’s time for me to say goodbye.” She said with a small, sad smile. “Good luck, boys. Good luck on the other side.”

John and Sherlock captured each other in a searing kiss. It was the last thing she got to say to them before they disappeared completely.

…

John was limping along Baker Street, looking for 221B, and found it just as a black cab pulled up at the kerb. Sherlock climbed out just as he knocked at the door. In this brief moment, he felt a bit of déjà vu hit him. It felt like he’d been here before. As if he’d used to call this place home.

“Hello.” Sherlock called out to John, then leaned through the window of the cab to hand the driver some money. “Thank you.”

John turned towards him as he walked over. “Ah, Mr. Holmes.”

“Sherlock, please.” He replied briskly as they shook hands.

John looked up at the building once more. “Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive.”

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour.” He shrugged. “A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”

The former military man looked shocked. “Sorry, you stopped her husband from being executed?”

“Oh no. I ensured it.” He replied with a devilish grin.

Just then the door opened, a sweet older woman opened her arms to Sherlock. “Sherlock, hello.” She said with a smile.

Much to John’s surprise, Sherlock turned and walked into her arms, hugging her briefly, then stepped back to present John to her. “Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson.”

The lady, Mrs. Hudson, smiled at John. “Hello.” 

The former military man returned her smile. “How do?”

She beckoned them inside. “Come in.”

“Shall we?” Sherlock asked her.

She replied with a smile, “Yeah.”

So the two of them went inside and Mrs. Hudson shut the door behind them. Sherlock hurried up to the landing, where he paused to wait for John to hobble up after him. As John reached the landing, Sherlock opened the door to the flat. John walked in behind him, observing all of the boxes and odds-and-ends strewn about. And even in this clutter, is struck with another moment of déjà vu. It seems like home to him for some reason. He tries not to frown. He succeeds as he comments, “Well, this could be nice. Very nice indeed.”

“Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely.” Sherlock looked about the flat happily. “So I went ahead and moved in.”

At that very moment, John had continued, “Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out…oh.” He had just realized what Sherlock had said. Embarrassed a bit, he paused, then said, “So this is all…”

“Well, obviously I can, um, straighten up a bit.” He looked uneasy, as if he weren’t used to company, but he walked across the room and made a half-hearted attempt to tidy up, throwing a few folders into a box and using a knife to hold a stack of unopened letters against the mantelpiece.  
John eyed an odd object on the mantelpiece nearby. “That’s a skull.”

“Friend of mine.” Sherlock replied. “When I say friend…” He trailed off, which left John to his own assumptions. For some reason, that didn’t bother him too much.  
He was glad, however, when Mrs. Hudson entered the room, picking up Sherlock’s cup and saucer as Sherlock took off his coat and scarf. “What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.” She had a small smile on her face, almost as if she had a secret she was keeping to herself.

“Of course we’ll be needing two.” Came John’s reply. It wasn’t appalled, thought it was shocked, as if he hadn’t even considered the idea.

Mrs. Hudson continued to smile. “Oh don’t worry; there’s all sorts round here.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Mrs. Turner next door’s got married ones.” John looked to Sherlock then, expecting him to confirm that the two of them were not involved, but Sherlock appeared to be oblivious to what had been insinuated. Mrs. Hudson walked across the room to the kitchen, then turned back and frowned at Sherlock. “Oh, Sherlock, the mess you’ve made.”

As she began to tidy up the kitchen, however, she began to smile. As she listened to the two men converse about Sherlock’s blog, she thought about how she’d rented out the very same apartment to ghosts in the past. There wasn’t any shame in keeping it from them, the fact that she was a very experienced psychic. She was just surprised Sherlock hadn’t deduced it by now. Perhaps it was because he was so focused on science. He couldn’t see the point of anything existing outside of his field of perception. But as she listened to them, she couldn’t imagine what it would have been like if they’d met under different circumstances. If she’d had them as ghost tenants instead, and wondered if the beyond would be willing to give their lives a second chance.

Little did she know that it was, in fact, exactly what had happened.

A/N: Well, that's it. How'd I do? Surprised? Disappointed? Shocked? Appalled? Was my smut too short? (I must admit, this was my first Sherlock Fic, although not my first smut, not by a friggin longshot. If you like my writing style (I like to twist the classic plots) I have many other stories posted on my Fanfiction.net posted under the same account name. But with a space. Warning: They're mostly Phineas and Ferb Ferbineas smut. Just a warning there. Seriously.


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